The week after he died, I found myself
distracted by his widow's gentle sobs
through tissue walls. We friends stuck to our jobs,
thumbing through files, inspecting every shelf
for bills neglected, one recent receipt,
some sentimental things--a dog-eared page
marked with a daughter's note, yellowed with age.
It read, "I luv u, Dad." I kept it neat,
right to the lockbox, doing what I said
I'd do, those years ago, that drunken haze.
I found the envelope, the photograph,
him and the girl I'd called not seven days
ago, who'd screamed when she learned he was dead.
They smiled, so young, while I ripped them in half.